


Imperfect

by orbythesea



Category: The Good Wife (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-01
Updated: 2011-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-19 23:52:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbythesea/pseuds/orbythesea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't perfect, but nothing ever is.  Obligatory hotel room fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imperfect

It isn't perfect, but nothing ever is.

She doesn't hesitate, not when her hands find his fly, not when her teeth drag over his throat, not when her head hits the pillow as his tongue traces wet circles against her thighs. There's nothing reluctant in her whine ("Dammit, Will, please-- "), nothing unsure about her hand stroking his erection or her smirk when he grabs her wrist and tears the hand away, struggling for control.

Still, it isn't perfect. She knows what she wants, but he knows her. He can see her uncertainty, the way it hides, coiled, just behind her eyes and in the tremor of her voice. He knows it in the shake of her hands, the tightness of her shoulders.

"You okay?" he whispers, even as he settles into the cradle of her hips, the wet heat of her calling to him. She nods, but her eyes tell another story and he repeats the question. "Alicia, are you okay?"

"Nervous," she admits, looking away. "It's been a long time."

He doesn't know if she means in general or since it was someone other than Peter, but he thinks he gets it, either way. "Okay," he says, forcing his desire to take a backseat for a moment. "It's okay." He strokes her cheek with his thumb, watching her. "We don't have to-- "

"No," she says, eyes snapping back to his. "No, I _want_ \-- " she arches up against him and it takes everything he has not to groan out loud. "I'm nervous, not frigid."

"Okay." He smiles, even though she doesn't, and leans in to press a kiss against her forehead. "Okay," he repeats as she shifts against him, slick and hot and sliding along his length. "God, yes-- "

She smirks, then, and her shoulders relax into the mattress and he knows. He gets it. It takes them a minute to find a rhythm that works, and when they do, he doesn't last as long as he wants to, but her eyes are locked on his as he comes apart and there's nothing uncertain hiding behind them.

"God, sorry-- " he mumbles, softening inside of her. "I just-- " It's embarrassing, or it would be, but she's smiling so sweetly that the humiliation doesn't have time to sink in. He slips his hand between them, and as she moans his name he thinks that maybe this is better. He gets to see her, gets to notice every detail, gets to focus on the hitch of her breath, the rich expanse of her throat, the way her thighs go tight around him as she bucks against his hand, the way her body flushes and arches against him as she buries her cries in the crook of his neck.

Nothing's ever perfect, but for an hour, it's better that way.


End file.
